


Lux(uria)

by ClutchHedonist



Series: Modern 24/7 BDSM AU [3]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 24/7 au, Abuse, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flogging, GRADENCE - Freeform, Gravebone, Homophobia, Japanese Rope Bondage, M/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Physical Abuse, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, Rope Bondage, clandestine as fuck meetings, lots and lots of sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-06 03:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8733364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist
Summary: Graves’s voice is low, gentle, “I don’t plan to tell her about any of this. Do you?”

 
  “She’ll know. She always knows.”
 
 
Continuation of the Modern 24/7 BDSM AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WELP, I realized that this thing is going to turn into a giant monster of horrendous sin, so I'm probably just going to begin posting it here in chapters. This bit of evil comes right after Anima Mea (http://archiveofourown.org/works/8698543) and details both my further descent into the dumpster that is the Modern 24/7 BDSM AU and the early portions of the relationship therein.
> 
> If you want to get heinous with me, I am always available to take prompts or just yell incoherently about F I L T H at clutchhedonist.tumblr.com <3

Credence has never seen so much food in one place that wasn’t meant for someone else.   
   
“I-I-…this is all for me?” He questions over the thick slab of mutton.  
   
“Who else would it be for?” Graves sweeps a hand over his own plate, the steam from his sirloin shivering into whorls at the motion.  
   
“I-“  
   
Mary Lou has hosted plenty of dinners for her biggest campaign donors, but there he’s meant to eat lightly, listen quietly, and defer questions to her – a picture of the modest restraint that her campaign champions. At home, she sits at the head of the table, measuring out each portion and handing the dishes back to the children. Gluttony is a venial sin, but impermissible nonetheless.    
   
Graves lifts his utensils just as the boy begins to fold his hands. Credence’s gaze flicks up at him through dark lashes, and Graves meets his eyes for a sliver of a moment before setting the silverware back at the side of the plate.  
   
“You don’t-?” Credence’s voice falls away from the inquiry.  
   
“No, I-…Not usually in a restaurant.” Graves replies, and a hint of bemusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. Credence blushes deeply, and Graves waves it away, “Please. I insist.”  
   
Credence murmurs through a rushed prayer over the meal, his eyes tugged up to the other man more than once as he speaks. Graves’s head is minutely inclined, hands resting folded in his lap just beneath the edge of the table. Their eyes meet once, just before Credence finishes, and the amen nearly drops back down his throat.  
   
“…But you’re Catholic, though, right?” Credence manages as Graves picks up his knife and fork once more.  
   
“I was raised Catholic, yes.” Graves tells him after a moment.  
   
“…Raised?”  
   
“I can’t say that I practice diligently.” The older man chuckles.  
   
“But you come to church every Sunday.”  
   
Graves glances up over his meal, guides Credence’s gaze down to his untouched meal with his own, “…Aren’t you hungry?”  
   
“Oh-“ Credence plucks his silverware from the table, “I’m sorry, I-“  
   
“Please, take your time.” Graves reassures him, and Credence gives a twitch of a nod.  
   
“Thank you very much, Mister Graves.”  
   
“My pleasure.”  
   
The mutton splits easily beneath his knife, revealing a stretch of deep red at the center. He nearly shivers at the taste, the warmth of it blossoming out to fill his mouth as he chews. His eyelids dip shut for a moment, and when he opens them once more, Graves is watching him.  
   
“Good?” He asks.  
   
Credence swallows and nods, “Thank you so much. I-…this is-…it’s more than I-”  
   
“I’m glad that you like it.” Graves leans in as he clips the self-effacement off.  
   
Trying a smile, Credence turns back to his meal. He realizes that he hasn’t spoken for a handful of minutes only when the taste of it seems to have soaked into the entirety of his senses, and he quickly leans back against the back of the booth.Graves doesn’t seem bothered by the silence, palms resting at either side of his plate.   
   
“Did you just move here?” Credence lurches into conversation.  
   
Graves shakes his head, “I’ve been in the city since I was a child.”  
   
“But you’ve only just started coming to church.”  
   
“I was in the market for a new congregation.” Graves tells him.  
   
Credence tilts his head to one side, “Why?”  
   
“You’re not going to like the answer.” Credence regards him curiously for a moment before Graves lets out another low chuckle, “I’m divorced. It was her church.”  
   
“…Oh.” Credence’s brows knit, and he only partially stifles a concerned frown, “…But you still come to church?”  
   
“It’s-” A minute huff of laughter, “You’re a very good Catholic, aren’t you?”  
   
“Ma says-”  
   
“I know what your mother says. Everyone does.” Graves arches an eyebrow, “I want to hear what you have to say.”  
   
Credence’s cheeks darken, “I-…I don’t know.” Graves cocks his head, and Credence presses on, “You’re supposed to-…supposed to be better at it than I am.” He admits, face dropping.  
   
Graves’s eyes narrow, “…How?”  
   
Credence freezes. He opens his mouth to speak, dry, and closes it again before the truth can claw its way out of him. He can feel Graves searching his features. Something in the pit of his stomach twists, and his appetite falls away all at once.  
   
Graves leans back in his seat, “I’ve never been a particularly good Catholic.” He offers, “It’s…stifling.”  
   
“…What?” Credence lifts his eyes to him once more.  
   
“You don’t think so?”  
   
Credence sucks in a breath, “I-…denying the body strengthens the soul.”  
   
“Does it?”  
   
“Self-denial is cooperation with the grace of Christ’s justification.”  
   
Graves straightens, and one hand slides beneath Credence’s chin to match their eyes, “Would you like to know why I come to church every Sunday?”  
   
Blinking, Credence exhales softly, “…Yes.”  
   
“You haven’t stopped looking at me.”  
   
A rush of blood just beneath his skin blurs Credence’s senses. He covers his face, stutters into a stream of apologies. Falls utterly still when Graves circles a set of fingers around his wrist.  
   
“Credence. You’re a fascinating young man.” He presses on.  
   
“I-…what? No, I-“  
   
“I don’t say things that I don’t mean.”  
   
Graves releases his grip on the boy’s wrist, leans back once more. Credence is left swirling, the skin of his arm pulsing with the remains of the warmth of the man’s hand.  
   
“Are you-…” He stammers.  
   
“Yes.”  
   
Credence’s breath sticks on something jagged in his chest. He casts a glance around the restaurant, suddenly acutely aware of each other patron.   
   
“You’re afraid.” Graves murmurs, “Of what?”  
   
Shaking his head fiercely, Credence begins to wring his hands just beneath the lip of the table.  
   
“Credence. Tell me.”  
   
“It’s wrong.” He whimpers.  
   
“For who?”  
   
The boy’s pale hands spring up to cover his face. Graves reaches out, tucks his thumb into one slim palm to nudge it out of the way. Credence only shakes his head once more.  
   
“Sh-she’ll kill me.”  
   
Graves’s voice is low, gentle, “I don’t plan to tell her about any of this. Do you?”  
   
“She’ll know. She always knows.”

The knot in his chest jerks as Graves presses one broad palm to the curve of his jaw. Credence's body stutters between seizing back and sinking further into the touch.

"Come outside a moment." Graves tells him.

With skin that feels on fire, Credence slides out of the booth, lets Graves usher him between the tables until they breach through the door and into the cramped side street. Graves steadies the boy with a hand on either shoulder.

"No one in there knows you." He assures him, "No one is looking at you."

Color rises in Credence's cheeks, "Ma says they're always watching. That they just want to s-see us slip up so they can-"

"No one is watching you but me." 

The hands on Credence's shoulders soften, and he feels their warmth shift as they soothe into the nape of his neck. His body bows back into it, unwitting. One of Graves's thumbs presses gently into the tender spot just below Credence's ear.

He doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't understand it, the surge in his body, throwing him forward like a man electrified, until his mouth is against Graves's. The older man's hands start against his neck, and then Graves's mouth is moving against his, guiding, consuming. He nearly falls as his body jerks into the sensation, but Graves drops one hand into the small of his back. Credence arches against him. 

It's when Graves leans back for a short breath that the cold in the air creeps between them, and Credence pulls away.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I-" He spills out, back thudding against the alley wall, "Mister Graves, I-"

Graves slips closer and sets two fingers against the boy's lips to hush him, "Don't apologize."

"It's a sin." Credence breathes helplessly.

The man's dark eyes fix on his, "Is it what you want?"

Credence swallows, reaching up with hesitant fingers to test at Graves's shoulder with one palm. Graves cradles the delicate hand in one of his own, lifts it up to to brush his lips over the knuckles. Credence's lips part as Graves's mouth ghosts across his skin, and his eyes grow wide.

"Is it, Credence?"

"...Yes."

***

Credence waits at the side door of the church twice per week, looks warily in either direction before each time that he slides into Graves's car. They eat at Graves's favorite holes in the wall, watch films from the back rows of theaters scattered around the city, kiss in the archways of secluded doors when Credence can't stand another second of not being touched. Graves cups his cheeks with his palms, presses his mouth against the hollow of his neck, and Credence loses himself against him, against the sheer warmth of him. He stops having to steal glances at him during Mass. Graves comes anyway.

Graves invites him home as the first cracks of warmth begin to trickle back into the air. Credence tells Mary Lou that his study group is meeting a third time that week to prepare for Easter Sunday, and hesitates in the apartment building's vestibule for fifteen minutes before pressing Graves's buzzer. The inner door clicks open a moment later, and Credence draws in a slow breath before he pushes through it.

The foyer of the building is furnished as a sitting room, slick contemporary furniture bathed in warmth by sconce lamps positioned along each wall. The security guard glances up from behind her desk, then waves him on after giving him a quick once-over. He marvels at the speed at which the elevator arrives and realizes that Graves has never let him pay for his own dinner.

When he finds himself outside the older man's door, he tugs at the cuffs of his shirt in an attempt to make them cover his wrists to no avail. A few more moments are spent straightening the shirt's collar and smoothing down his hair before he hears footfalls in the front hall and quickly knocks to preempt their arrival. 

Graves has dispensed with his tie and the suit jacket that matches his charcoal slacks, but is otherwise still dressed in what Credence imagines are the clothes he wore to work. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and the scent of garlic and simmering sauce rolls into the hall as he draws back the door. Credence quirks a small smile, and Graves steps back to allow him to pass through. When the door shuts, he draws the boy to himself, catches his mouth with his own, and Credence's frame softens against him.

The kitchen adjoins the living room, and Credence sinks into the center of the sofa as Graves prepares their food. The furniture is less modern than in the lobby, dark enameled woods and leather upholstery. The pair of shelves inset into the walls are heavy with books. Credence finds himself drifting towards them, letting his fingertips skim their spines. Military history. Psychology. Criminal justice. Knots. 

He's still wandering along the shelves when Graves calls him in from the kitchen.

"You must read a lot." He remarks over their dinner.

Graves glances up at him, "Hm?"

"Your books. There are so many."

"Ah. Mostly for work, I'm afraid." Graves tells him.

Credence nods, leaves it at that until his curiosity gets the better of him after the meal. He lays pressed against the older man's chest on the couch, the sensation of Graves carding his fingers through his hair lulling him into a pleasant haze.

"You still haven't told me what you do." He murmurs. He feels Graves shift beneath him, and lifts his head to peer up at him, "Hn?"

"Law enforcement, mostly." Graves replies after a moment.

"Mostly?"

"I have other pursuits. Projects." He admits, "But by and large, I work for the government."

Credence reaches up with a few fingertips to graze the other man's wrist, "Will ... will you tell me about them? Your projects?" 

"I doubt they'd interest you much." Graves tells him, "It's mostly event logistics."

"Events? Like...what, like rallies?" Credence questions.

"You're curious tonight."

He blushes and sinks back down against Graves's chest. They lay in silence for several long moments, Graves with one hand stilled against the crown of the boy's head. Credence can feel him draw in a long breath.

"...I own a space for like-minded people to be free to express themselves." He begins, and Credence lifts his head once more.

"...What kind of people?" He asks quietly.

"People interested in exploring the exchange of power." Graves continues, "Dominance and submission."

Credence freezes, "...What?"

Graves runs one thumb along the boy's jawline, "Many people find it freeing. Abdicating their own power, submitting to someone else. A sense of structure."

"I-...they-..." Credence finds himself struggling for purchase against a flood of his own thoughts, "Do they h-have-...? Is it-...is it sexual?"

Graves chuckles, offers a crooked smile, "For some people. Not for everyone."

"D-do you-?"

"Do I what, Credence?"

"...Do you...like that sort of thing?"

"Yes."

Credence's breath leaves him in one sudden pant. He has seen, sealed in translucent covers, magazines in the racks in seedier corner stores. Quickly clicked away from banner ads offering indecent acts. Heard Mary Lou rail against unspeakable perversions. 

"Y-You-..."

"Do you?"

"No!" Credence ducks his face against the man's shoulder.

"You don't have to. I'm only asking."

"No." Credence repeats, "No."

***

He is burning, deep and low in his gut. Leaving even the thin sheet over himself is strangling. He kicks it off into the rumpled pile of the rest of the blankets with a groan. Their apartment seems spartan in comparison to Graves's, dark and utilitarian. The walls of his bedroom, bare as always, seem to press in towards the edges of his bed, to bear cold, silent witness to him as he struggles and squirms between them.

He won't. He won't do it. He can't. Not like this. Not over something like this. He rolls over onto his stomach to deny himself. The pressure of his own hips trapping his leaking cock between his stomach and the bed is enough to make him grind down into it for a moment, and he muffles a frustrated cry into the pillow.

Graves had led their conversation away from the subject as soon as Credence had professed disinterest, stroked the boy's hair with gentle fingers until it had grown almost too late to think up a viable excuse to give to Mary Lou. His mouth on Credence's was as warm and careful as ever as he let him out of the car a few blocks from the church. If he had felt the boy's pulse thudding beneath the fingers curled around one skinny wrist, he had said nothing. 

He can't decide which is worse, lying to Graves or the way his breath comes in stilted gasps as he pushes his hips down against the mattress.  He imagines the older man's hands on his shoulders, forcing him down to his knees, and feels the sheet beneath him grow slick. No, no, no, he can't. He can't-

In his mind, Graves's hands are wound deep into his hair, pulling him towards himself, and Credence is coming, coming so hard that the thrashing of his body drags the corners of the sheet out from beneath the mattress. He sinks his teeth into the meat of his thumb and whimpers deeply as he rides out the force of it. He's panting in earnest, hair swear-slick against his forehead, as he scrabbles to clean himself up.

He's memorized Graves's number so that he doesn't have to risk saving it into his phone. His hands are still shaky as he thumbs the digits in. It rings four times before Graves's bleary voice answers.

"...Credence?" He grunts, "Is everything all right?"

"...Please, will you tell me about it, Mister Graves?"

***

He's sitting with one thigh on either side of Graves's lap, dark eyes wide. Graves cups his cheeks with both warm palms, keeps him from turning his face away with a kind of tender firmness that makes Credence's pulse rattle.

"No one is here but us." He tells him, nodding back towards the rest of the apartment, "Just us."

Credence nods nervously, and Graves strokes the pads of his thumbs along the boy's cheekbones. 

"You don't have to do anything that you don't like. That you don't want." Graves explains slowly, "It isn't like that. You give me what you want to give me. And I keep it for you. Do you understand?"

Swallowing, Credence nods once more. Graves lets one hand drop to squeeze his thigh, "And you know what you can say if you need to stop."

"Enough." Credence agrees.

"Good." 

Something in the line of Graves's jaw firms, and Credence can see his eyes cool just a hint. His hands find Credence's hips, and the boy lets out a small gasp at the ease with which he finds himself lifted and set gently on the floor just in front of the couch. Graves leans over him, lifts his face in one palm.

"This is something that you want. Something that you want to try."

Credence tries a minute nod, but the strength of Graves's hand holds him still.

"Tell me." The older man orders quietly.

"Y-Yes."

Graves tilts his head to one side, lifts one eyebrow, "Yes...?"

Credence's eyelids flutter, lips parting. He lets out a shallow breath.

"Yes, Sir."


	2. Chapter 2

They're all simple tasks, ones that he understands, that he carries out each day without a second look. Ironing clothes. Polishing flatware. Fixing dinner. The weight of Graves's command sews strands of light into them, brings them to life like the name of God on a golem's tongue. Credence feels it against the back of his neck as he works, the heft of being ordered into motion, the silent hand of another. There's an odd, heady sort of relief in it.

He eats dinner at Graves's feet and tries to push away shame at the pleasure of it. Every so often, Graves brushes his fingertips down through his hair, and Credence shudders into the touch.

 "...Sir?" His voice is small, and Graves lifts one eyebrow as he looks down on the boy.

"Yes?"

"I-is this...is this all right? Is this wh-what I'm supposed to-" He cheeks darken, "How I should-...?"

Graves sets the heel of one hand between Credence's shoulders, "Up." 

Credence stumbles to his feet. Balling his hands at his sides, he schools his features into the best impression of calm he can manage. Graves's chair scrapes against the floor as he rises from it. Then, his hands are on Credence's cheeks. Credence shivers, blushes further, but Graves holds him still.

"Look at me." He commands.

Credence's gaze stutters up to the older man. Graves's fingertips smooth his bangs.

"You're a good boy." He tells him simply.

Credence's eyes widen, "I-...wh-"

Graves leans in to press his lips against his forehead, "And you've done so well for me."

The breath in Credence's chest feels heavy, difficult to draw in. Graves slides one hand to the back of his neck to pull him in closer. 

"Good boy." He murmurs again, this time just beside Credence's ear.

There's warmth pressing up somewhere beneath Credence's skin, and he can feel goosebumps rise up on his arms. His fingers search for Graves's lapels as the older man guides his cheek down onto his shoulder. 

"Th-thank you." He breathes. Graves gives the nape of his neck a small squeeze, and Credence quickly adds, "...Sir."

 

***

 

When Graves gently helps him up from beside his feet on the floor almost an hour later, Credence clings to the last moments of submission, pushes his cheek against Graves's shoulder and lets the other man kiss along the length of his neck. There's something placid about it, all of it, and his limbs feel smooth and formless as Graves gathers him up into his lap.

Twilight is just tugging pinks and yellows up over the horizon by the time he makes it back to their apartment. Chastity's mouth is drawn when he slips in the door.

"We're not having supper." She tells him tightly.

He pauses just in front of the door, "...Why?"

"Ma went by the church."

It's all the warning he gets before the outline of her appears further down the hall, stiff and silent. His gaze drops to the floor.

"I'm sorry." He offers immediately.

"Where were you?" She asks, and her voice is like the surface of dark, motionless water.

"I-I- ...study ended early, s-some of us went out to get dinner-"

"You've eaten already."

He winces, "...I'm sorry."

"You can explain to the girls that your gluttony is the reason that they're going hungry tonight. Rot in one part of the orchard affects all the trees."

"Yes, Ma."

"Chastity."

The girl straightens, retreats silently down the hall to her. Mary Lou lifts a hand to stroke her hair. Chastity's eyes are hard, dark.

"You decide. Should your brother be allowed eat tomorrow, for what he's done to you poor girls?" Mary Lou asks, lips pressed into a tight smile.

He can see the moment that Chastity has to stop her gaze from flickering to him, the steel line of her back and the way her eyes widen almost imperceptibly, "No, Ma." She offers up.

He bites back on a sigh of relief. He'll be the only one beaten tonight. Mary Lou's attention returns to him, and Chastity's shoulders loosen.

"You heard your sister." Mary Lou tilts her head to the side minutely, "You've been cruel to her, and cruelty requires correction."

He nods, nearly whispers, "Yes, Ma."

She extends a hand towards him, and his fingertips drop to his belt.

 

***

 

_I can't come over on Thursday._ He thumbs the message to Graves as he lays curled on one side on his bed. 

_Oh?_

_She found out I wasn't at church._

The phone rings almost immediately. Credence silences it, taps in a shaky _I can't talk right now_ and then pushes it up under his pillow. One hand winds up into his bangs, and he swallows. The phone vibrates again beneath the pillow. He ignores it.

The ugly place in him, the place that's never full, no matter how much unspeakable behavior he considers, shrieks out for more of Graves's orders, for the firm, careful press of his hand. Credence curls, as if covering himself will keep the thing from pouring out, smothering the rest of them, the rest of the orchard, in his poisonous illness. He remembers the scent of lacquer and polish on Graves's hardwood floor, and a wave of nausea pushes him beneath his blankets. He drags them tight over his back and relishes the coarseness of them, the reminder of what his deviance has earned him.

The phone rings again. Credence turns it off.

 

***

 

Graves is already across the aisle when they arrive at their pew. Credence tries and fails to keep from glancing at him as he genuflects. He can feel the weight of his gaze on him as the family shuffles into place. Modesty's hand sneaking up into his is all that reminds him to sit. 

There has only been one message since their last night together - a short voicemail, Graves telling him that he'll wait to hear from him until Credence is ready, that he's not ashamed of him. Credence had deleted it only when he had heard it enough that he could conjure it up in his mind. Now, sitting across from him, Graves seems painfully far, separated from him by both the aisle and Mary Lou's expectations. 

He rises mutely during the homily. Modesty cocks her head and watches him as he slips down the side aisle, eyes fixed on the floor. He's made it out to the parking lot, limbs shaking, before he feels a strong hand on his shoulder. Graves turns him back to face himself, and the boy swallows and shudders.

"Credence, are y-"

Credence's mouth locks with his too fast for him to finish the question. Slender arms wind up around him, and he can feel short pants of breath, Credence's lashes wet against his cheek. His brings one hand up to the nape of Credence's neck, the other arm around his waist, guiding the boy back between two parked cars.

"I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry, I-I-" Credence is shaking beneath his touch, whimpering and clutching at his collar.

"You don't need to apologize."

His face noses into the hollow of Graves's neck. A silent moment passes before he murmurs a minute, "Sir."

Graves blinks, then gathers Credence closer in his arms, "My sweet boy."

 

***

 

For two and a half weeks, Credence attends Bible study group. Mary Lou brings surprise cookies to the second session, and he allows himself a faint smirk down into his notes. When she hasn't returned by the fifth meeting, he excuses himself half way through the opening prayer and slips out through the side door and into the evening.  

He lets Graves touch him in earnest for the first time that night, comes so hard into the man's hand that he nearly unseats both of them from the couch. His hands shake as he returns the gesture, but the sound of Graves's breath growing harsh beside his ear is enough to drive him to distraction for the next three days. By their next encounter he is voracious, unappeasable, and Graves brings him off twice before supper and once after. Credence keens against his shoulder as Graves pours praise into the spot just beneath his ear.

By the end of May, the time Credence spends in Graves's control begins to overtake the time spent outside of it. He timidly allows Graves to bind one wrist behind his back with coarse jute on an evening that the sun's haze lingers late in the sky.

"How does it feel, my boy?" Graves asks as he snakes two fingers beneath the binding.

"Good, Sir." Credence breathes against the carpet. 

"Can you feel this?" He runs a knuckle along the arch of Credence's pointer finger, then his pinkie.

"Yes, Sir."

Graves nods, "Good. Sit up."

Credence obeys, adjusting his weight down onto his opposite elbow to push himself up from the ground. Graves sinks down onto the couch, and Credence sets his chin silently on the man's knee.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"What's it like? Your-..." His cheeks grow warm, "...Where you go on the weekends."

"The Vault?"

"...Yes, Sir."

"Would you like to see it?"

Credence's breath catches, "I-I-...wh-what if p-people-"

"See you?" Graves chuckles, "Why do you think they're there? Wouldn't have much room to throw stones."

Credence swallows, brows knitting. He presses his cheek slowly to Graves's knee, "...No one would tell anyone?"

"There have been high profile guests at establishments like mine for decades." Graves tells him, fingers sifting through his hair, "Anyone outs you, they lose their place in the whole thing. No one wants that."

Credence is still for a long moment. Graves brushes the pad of one finger just under his ear, feels his pulse hammering beneath his skin.

"Yes, please, Sir."

 

***

 

Graves runs his palms over Credence's shirt collar, straightening the knot of his tie. The boy's eyes trace down over the tailored cut of the clothing, the unblemished finish of the waistcoat's dark fabric, the way the pants cling to the curves of his thighs.

"Thank you, Sir." He breathes. The clothing had been waiting for him on the bed when he arrived at Graves's apartment, neat and pressed. The way Graves had carefully buttoned him into it and smoothed his hair back off his forehead had already left him hungry for the man's touch.

Graves cups his cheek with an affectionate palm, "Are you ready?"

Credence feels his breath hitch, "I-I hope so, Sir."

Squaring his hands on his shoulders, Graves gives a squeeze, "You are. No one will touch you without your permission. You don't even have to talk to anyone if you don't want to. Just enjoy it."

Credence nods mutely. Returning the gesture, Graves steps back to slip into his jacket. When he finishes, he gives two small pats on his thigh, and Credence falls into step behind him as he makes his way out.

There's a piece of him, a piece that still belongs to her, to Him, that howls at him as he sits in the passenger seat, drags every epithet she has ever called him through his mind, held up against the idea of him prepared to enter this place, to do this unconscionable thing. _Proof, proof_ , it shrieks. _Pervert. Filthy whore._

He balls his fists in his lap and presses his face against Graves's shoulder as the car stops. He can feel the warmth of Graves's palm come to rest at the nape of his neck. It remains there until his breathing evens out, then rubs slowly.

"Come along." Graves murmurs.

 "Yes, Sir."

He skirts around the car to find his place behind Graves's right shoulder, taking a glance around the street as he does. There's no one else to be seen, and he gives a minute sigh of relief as he lets his gaze drop down to Graves's heels. They move over macadam, concrete, and then the momentary silver hint of a doorframe before they're inside. Credence slips closer to the older man. 

"Mister Graves."

Credence glances up from beneath his lashes at the sound of a woman's voice. She's sitting behind a table at the side of a freight elevator, clipboard in hand, offering Graves a smile, and he nods in return.

"Marcy."

"Would you-" She pauses, eyebrows lifting, "Oh, a guest this evening." 

"With me." He tells her, and Credence feels warmth blossom in his cheeks.

She nods, "Yessir. No wristband, then?"

"He'll be with me all evening."

Another nod, "Got it. Enjoy your evening."

Graves slips past the table, pulls the lever at the side of the elevator. It rattles open, and Credence follows him inside. As the elevator lurches into motion, Graves wraps an arm around Credence's waist. The boy turns instinctively inward, murmurs a soft "Sir" into Graves's neck.

“You’re doing well.” Graves assures him, letting his hand drop briefly into the small of his back. Credence shudders appreciatively.

As the elevator grumbles to a halt, Credence catches his first glimpse of the space. The warehouse is enormous, already buzzing early in the evening. Just the heat of it, the warmth of bodies in motion, some of them naked or nearly so, halts him in place as it rolls over him. Graves’s hand in the curve of his back slips away as the man steps forward. Credence forgets to follow for a moment, forgets to breathe, forgets his own name until Graves pats his leg once more, and then he darts forward to fall in behind him.

“Good boy.”

Something about the words, here, where anyone could hear him say it, could hear him call him-... Credence swallows over the faint thrum just beneath his skin. He can distantly hear Graves greeting patrons as they make their way across the floor.

“I see you finally brought the reason you haven’t played with anyone in six months.”

The voice is bold, deep, and the woman it belongs to must be almost half a foot taller than him in her towering heeled boots. Graves arches an eyebrow, although the corner of his mouth pricks up for a sliver of a second.

“Worth the wait.” He tells her simply.

She barks a laugh, and watches Credence as they pass by her. He blushes, and she chuckles once more before turning away.

There’s a sitting space set up near the back wall of the warehouse, and Graves sinks down into one of the wingback chairs like a second skin. A heartbeat passes in Credence’s chest before he folds himself into the space at Graves’s feet. Graves makes an appreciative noise in his throat and strokes the boy’s cheek.

“What do you think?” He inquires.

Credence cranes his neck to peer out over the space, bolder now that his vantage point allows him to observe without being easily watched in return.

“…I-it’s…”

There’s a man strapped to an x-shaped cross by his wrists and ankles just beyond their sitting area. His back is red and welted, worn raw by some sort of-…Credence isn’t certain precisely what it is, but it’s got a group of leather tails that pummel the man’s shoulders with each pass. He can hear the thud of leather on flesh with each volley.

“What is it, Credence?” Graves runs a thumb along the shell of his ear.

“…Do you…do you want to hit me, Sir?” He asks quietly.

Graves leans back in his chair, “I don’t want to do anything that you’re not interested in, Credence.” He tells him.

Credence gives a slow nod. The man is twisting in his bonds, arching and bucking. Even from a few yards away, Credence can make out his pleading, the groans that he grates out with every impact. His eyes are tugged downward to his hips, to the hardness barely masked by his underwear that he ruts up against the juncture of the cross.

“…S-Sir?”

“Yes, Credence?”

“…What if I wanted you to?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS I continue to be a trash child. God help me. It only gets filthier from here.


	3. Chapter 3

The June air is light, warm, but Credence is shivering nonetheless. It's too early for any patrons to be in the space, and Graves has only turned on one of the banks of lights, just above the support beam that Credence's forehead is pressed up against. The cuffs holding his wrists just above his head on the opposite side of the post are supple, the leather finish padded on the inside. He curls his fingers, swallows a breath. He's been half-hard since Graves lifted his arms to begin binding him, but now, torso bare and exposed, he blushes as the older man circles back around behind him.

 "Jesus." Graves breathes, barely loud enough for Credence to catch it, brushing his fingertips along the planes of the boy's back. He leans back from him, one hand resting on his shoulder, "You're sure?"

Credence jerks a quick, silent nod.

"You know that we can stop if you don't like it."

"Please, Sir."

He hears Graves exhale softly. The hand slides off his shoulder, and the man's footsteps move back a few feet. Something - the flogger, that's what Graves had told him it was called - moves in the air just behind him. He can feel it like electricity just shy of his back as it arcs to life, the wake of a seamless figure eight that barely grazes each shoulder. The tips of the tails touch down almost imperceptibly at first, raking up goosebumps along his skin. His toes curl against the floor, and his jaw tightens.

"Good?" Graves inquires.

"Harder, Sir, please." He implores.

Graves huffs a laugh. Credence can feel more of the length of the implement come down on the next strike, a stinging blow that has him struggling to stand straighter. His throat clamps down on his voice instinctively. _Breathe_ , he tells himself, _Breathe, don't stop breathing_. Graves doesn't have to adjust his speed to bring up the first welts on the boy's back. Credence shoves his face into the beam, trembles.

"Still good?"

The nod he receives in response is utterly soundless. Graves's eyebrows cant. He pauses in the rhythm of his motion, readies his arm and brings down a more substantial stroke across the meat of Credence's left shoulder. Nothing. Another. Silence. He sets the flogger down and crosses the space between them.

Credence's teeth are sunken into his lower lip, cheeks wet and ruddy. Tears gather in his lashes, then streak messily along the rivulets left behind by others. When Graves sets a hand against his back, the boy jerks like a kite string.

"Shhh, shhh." The older man murmurs quickly, wraps his arms around his waist.

"Sir, p-please..." Credence begs, voice tight and small.

"Please what, my sweet boy?" Graves's lips soothe against his temple.

"P-Please don't stop, Sir, please." 

Graves blinks, "...Credence?"

The boy opens his mouth to speak, chokes and clenches it shut once more. Graves reaches up to cup his cheek, and Credence shakes his head sharply, "Please, Sir." He pants out, "I-I want to-...I-..."

"Credence, if it's too much, if you don't-"

"I w-want it to be yours." Credence manages to sputter, and his face contorts for a moment, mute despite the fresh tears that spill.

"Mine?"

"I-I want you to take it -t-take this- so it's yours and n-not-..." 

Graves pauses, "...Hers."

"Please, Sir." Credence whimpers, "I-If it's yours and I'm yours,” His eyes are screwed shut, now, and his lips purse, “Then i-it can...then it's mine, too, right?"

Graves lets out a long, slow breath. With careful fingers, he sifts through the boy’s hair, “Credence…”

“Please.” He whispers.

Leaning back, Graves brings his hands to rest on Credence’s shoulders. Rough palms smooth along the welts already cresting the skin. The man takes another breath, “If you-…If this is what you want, what you need,” He begins, “I’ll give it to you.” He brings his lips up along the shell of Credence’s ear, and the boy shivers.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“But,” Graves continues, “No more trying to fight it. No more showing that you can take it. That you can get through. You let it take you. You let it be what you need it to be. You understand?”

Credence swallows. With lips pressed tight, he gives a minute nod.

Graves returns the gesture, “Good.”

There is a moment when Graves’s footfalls are the only thing that Credence can hear over his own breathing. There is a dull thudding in his ears, a near-silent rush of blood that he can feel prickling up the hairs at the back of his neck. When the meat of the flogger comes down over his back, a single, powerful thunderburst, the force of it is enough to stagger him into the pole. It wrings a cry, just surprise at first, from the boy’s throat.

“Good boy.” Graves tells him.

Panting raggedly, Credence pushes himself back onto his footing. He’s only just balanced himself back on his heels when another volley crashes down on the opposite shoulder, sends him reeling back into the post, steals the air from his lungs. The burn from it comes afterward, the slow, searing ache that roils up along its path. He swallows to loosen his throat, and a whimper drops out.

“Such a good boy.” Graves murmurs again, and then he’s winding the path of the tails back into rhythm, a salvo of quicker, lighter clips that scrape heat into the surface of Credence’s skin.

The tears come again, and Credence balls his fists against the beam, knuckles whitening.

“Let go.” Graves commands, levels another heavy blow.

It knocks a sob through his teeth. The hushed reverence in Graves’s voice when he hums out a quiet, “There’s a boy” strangles the rest of it out all at once. Credence is weeping, thick, choking convulsions that bring him down to his knees. Graves’s relentless battery peels him out of himself, drags him beyond understanding until all that’s left is a messy whirl of sensation and feeling. He jerks and seizes in his bindings, body forgotten but for the growing fire blistering his back.

When he gathers him back into his arms, even the fabric of Graves’s shirt is scalding against the raw skin. Credence goes boneless, arms dropping onto his thighs as Graves frees them from the cuffs. He only dimly notes the impressions of them left thrashed into his wrists before Graves is pressing his lips close against them, and then Credence swirls into his grip like steam.

His fingers search for the man’s face, clutch along his jawline to drag Graves’s mouth down to his own with shaking, desperate hands. Their teeth click with the ferocity of his eagerness, and he feels Graves smile against his lips.  

“S-Sir.” He sighs, devout, into the space between them, “Sir…”

 “How do you feel, my boy?” Graves asks quietly.

Credence merely repeats the appellation, once and then again, over and over, a litany as he drops his face into Graves’s shoulder. One of Graves’s hands cradles his head as the boy finds his breath again. There’s a broad, flat expanse of silence in his senses, like the airless ringing after a gunshot.  He only realizes that Graves is carrying him when he hears the armchair creak beneath them as the man sinks into it. Credence isn’t certain when or how he produces a water bottle, but takes it willingly between his lips, spills a few drops from the corner of his mouth and laughs hazily as Graves wipes them away with his thumb. When Graves shrugs out of his jacket and lays it over him, Credence lets his eyes fall shut.

 

***

 

There is warmth surrounding him as consciousness begins to trickle into his mind. His brows furrow, ache blooming over the planes of his back. A small hiss of breath through his teeth, and his eyelids flutter open once more. Graves’s chin is hooked over his shoulder, the man’s jaw butting up against his own, body formed to his. One large hand lays flat against Credence’s chest, the other pressing down into the curve of his hip, pulling the boy’s slender body back against his.   

He doesn’t recognize the bed they’re in, but the room is clean, simple, and Credence can only guess that it makes up part of the private hallway behind Graves’s sitting area. He shifts and can feel the faint rustle of fabric between them – bandages. A bottle of aloe is perched on the nightstand, resting beside a lamp issuing only a soft hint of a light, and a clock that reads two forty-eight. Credence starts.

“Credence?” Graves is awake behind him instantly, gathering him against himself, squeezing one thigh.

“O-oh no…”

Graves sits up, follows the boy’s gaze, “…It’s late.” He realizes.

Credence ignores the sparks as he rolls onto his back, watches the older man, eyes dark, “I don’t want to go home.” He says quietly, “Not tonight. Please.”

“Your mother-”

“I know. I don’t-…please.”

The sheets whisper as Credence leans up on his elbows. His breath is soft, even and slow, and Graves watches his face as the boy lifts one hand, slides his slim fingers up the nape of his neck and into his hair. He leans in as Credence arches up, matches their lips. One of Credence’s thighs presses into the side of his hip as Graves licks into his mouth, and Graves feels as much as hears the rumble of a groan in his throat.

“Please.” He repeats, and then, cheek pressing against Graves’s, “Please, Sir.”

Graves breathes out a chuckle, runs a palm up between the soft v of Credence’s thighs. The boy pushes up into his touch, already half-hard beneath the fabric of his underwear.

“Do you want me to touch you, my lovely boy?” Graves murmurs as he leans over him. He feels Credence’s legs jerk on either side of his waist.

“I want- …I w-…” Credence pants softly, swallows, “…Please, w-would you-…”

Graves plays his palm over the front of his underwear, revels in the helpless gasps it pulls up out of him, “Would I what?”

When Credence levels his gaze on him, there’s a weight in it that makes Graves’s stomach drop.

“Please, Sir, I-…I want you to.”

The air spools out of Graves’s lungs, takes with it a half-uttered, “ _Jesus_ ”.

Credence blushes, “W-We don’t have to-”

“No, no.” Graves assures him quickly, leaning down to push kisses warm and deep enough to make the boy whimper into the inside of one thigh, “I just…you’re sure?”

“ _Please,_ Sir.” Credence begs.

There’s something inside of him, something glacial and immense, cracking and unraveling. When Graves sets his mouth against him over his underwear, runs his lips up along his length, Credence can feel himself begin to leak. There’s a slick stain in the fabric when Graves reaches the tip. His tongue flicks out to taste it, and Credence’s hips buck at the sensation.

“ _God._ ”

It’s the first time he’s taken the Lord’s name in vain, and it drops from him like something heavy, lands in his gut as Graves shimmies his underwear down his hips and swallows the whole of him into his throat.

“ _God!_ ”

He’s covering his face, shaking and unable to keep from whimpering, thrashing up for more. Graves holds his hips, measures him out as Credence pitches and writhes. When he draws back, tongue sweeping the underside of him as he goes, the sense of loss, the agony of it, drives Credence up against him. He rolls his hips up into Graves’s, begs. The sound of Graves’s harsh growl of a moan forces his fingernails into the man’s shoulders.

Graves barely manages to untangle them, to sprawl the boy out on the bed again, shuck his own clothing and drag the nightstand drawer open. Credence watches him slick a few fingers, then freezes as he swipes them up between his cheeks.

“… _Oh._ ” He breathes. One thick finger plays at his rim, and he bites down on his own wrist.

“Slow.” Graves tells him, “ _Slow._ ”

Credence manages a shaken nod. His thighs part as Graves’s sweeps careful, deliberate circles over the muscle, enticing, urging. The idea that Graves is going to push into him, open him, _sodomize_ him, force in all of the hard, slick warmth that Credence’s palms itch when they remember – he drags in a breath, works his hips back against the pressure as a silky bead of precome rolls down his length and across the inside of his thigh.

It feels like an eternity before Graves sinks into him, and Credence feels himself spread tight down to the man’s knuckle. He stutters another breath between his teeth.

“How is it?” Graves murmurs into his temple.

“G-Good, Sir, it’s good, it’s good.” Credence stammers, twisting to force himself further over the digit. He mewls when Graves rewards him with another, “ _Good._ ”

Graves’s hand is steady, purposeful as he works his fingers into rhythm. Credence’s hips lift from the bed, and Graves smooths them back down with his other palm, chuckles quietly through kisses scattered over the boy’s forehead and eyelids, “My sweet, sweet boy.”

“Sir.” Credence frets at his bottom lip, “Please, I-I-…I want you to-…”

“Slow.” Graves tells him once more.

Credence feels as if his body is going to fall apart, burst at the seams with the tight, bright energy burning just beneath his navel. One long arm reaches up brace himself against the headboard, and his uses its purchase to twist his hips down, seat the other man’s fingers in himself to the hilt. Graves sucks in a breath, curses.

“Please.” Credence pleads.

Graves pants out a laugh, “Hungry little marvel.”

He withdraws his fingers from him, and Credence is shivering too hard to mourn their loss as Graves positions himself at his entrance. He wraps his arms up around the man’s shoulders, pulls himself up close, gaze fixed at the junction of their hips with pupils nearly eclipsing the brown of his eyes. There is a sliver of a second that he only sees it, sees the older man’s muscles tense as he pushes forward, sees his own body yield, _yield_ , and then he’s drowning in it. The heaviness, the slick, pulled-tight friction as Graves sinks into him, into his body, into the fabric of him. The nerves of his rim sing as Graves shifts back to slide in further, screaming at the feel of it, the warmth and hardness of Graves spreading him out. He’s leaking in rivulets between their stomachs, into the dusting of dark hair that trails down between his hips, into the shallow hollow of his belly button, obscene and wanting and too much. He knows that Graves can feel it, too, when the man arches in further and shivers.

“You beautiful boy,” he breathes.

A strong hand finds the back of Credence’s thigh, lifts it up so that Credence can lock his ankles in the small of his back, can offer himself to him. He spreads further as he does, rolls his shuddering hips down against the other man until Graves bottoms out in him. His nails scrape along the back of his shoulders, and he can feel his own long thighs shaking in earnest.

“Ready?” Graves’s voice is gruff, low in his throat.

Credence nods, and it’s enough. Graves begins to rock within him, just rock, at first, and then slide, in short, deep strokes, out of and back into him, and Credence unwinds into pleading, jerking desperation. He clutches the older man to himself with hands that seem barely corporeal as they cling. The scrape of the sheets across the welts on his back only drive him to buck up harder, to come down on them with every thrust as a badge of honor, a brand the he bears with heart-swallowing excitement.

Graves catches his hips on one arch, and Credence loses his breath as the man’s cock pivots up against something inside him that blinds him for a long moment. One hand fists in what little of Graves’s short hair it can, the other in the sheets, wrenching them free from beneath the mattress

“ _Sir!_ ” He cries, and he feels, in that moment, as if he’s teetering close to the edge of a chasm, breathless and staring, before he surrenders himself to it, comes as dragged to it by force, in swells that spatter up to his chest. In the fever of it, he can feel Graves piston into him, deep, and something hot and wet, sacred in the sheer profanity of it, splashes up into him. His hips surge up to meet it, to accept, with hunger, every shudder of it, every drop.

Graves remains locked to him as he rides it out, as they sink down onto the mattress, slick and gasping, “Credence…” He pants, the seam of one hand fastening around the boy’s ear.

“S-Sir…” There’s a dull ache slowly growing between his legs, and he can feel snarls and whorls wound into his hair from the pillow. He ignores all of it, presses his face into the crook of Graves’s neck, tastes the salt of the man’s sweat. When Graves draws back from him, he feels wetness dribble down into the crooks of his thighs, and blushes at the guilty pleasure of it.

Graves collects the boy in his arms, rolling to bring the slender length of Credence’s body up on top of his own. It only takes a moment for Credence to sigh back into restfulness against his broad chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is probably some of the more filthy filth that I've ever filthed. Big thanks to drvonlizak.tumblr.com for taking the proofreading bullet XD As always, if you'd like to chat heinous with me, I am also clutchhedonist.tumblr.com and will almost continually take prompts and talk awfulness <3


	4. Chapter 4

Graves gamely awakens when Credence’s alarm goes off at four thirty, nudges the boy into waking with chuckled scrapes of his teeth along the curve of his neck. Credence startles when consciousness first returns to him, then softens in Graves’s arms at the man’s warmth, his scent. Graves runs his palms over his thighs, coaxes him out of bed and into at least the majority of his clothing. He lets the quiet hiss when Credence sits up pass by without comment.

It’s the first time that he’s let Graves drive him all the way to their block. Behind the apartment building, he tumbles out of the car in his shoes, slacks and black undershirt, mouth faintly warm from the older man’s lips. He’s said his goodbyes in advance, ducking into the building without further fanfare, save the slight labor in his gait. The doorman lifts his eyebrows. Credence purses his lips and says nothing.

The elevator carries him up to the third floor. He ignores the stinging accusation of sloth that his mind flings his way at using it for such a short trip, and cringes at the sound of its arrival chime. Soreness ripples in his shoulders as he slinks to their door. His breath sticks in his throat when he pushes in and turns the key.

The apartment is still and steel colored in the first light. Inhabiting the space with Mary Lou has already burned the quietest path over the floorboards into his muscles, and he spirits through like ink through water, feet soundless against the carpet. The doorknob of his room barely whispers under his touch.

“Credence?”

His shoulders jerk. He can feel, all at once, the welts that crisscross them, the tightness in his thighs, every place on his body that Graves has ever touched, shrieking wordless confessions. There is an intangible difference in him, and he swears that it clings, film-like, to the surface of his skin.

“Modesty.” He barely breathes, frozen.

Her brows furrow, “What is it?”

He can’t bring himself to turn to face her, although his hand retreats from the doorknob and into the folds of the rumpled shirt he’s carrying over his arm.

“We were real worried.” She tells him, and he winces.

He tries a hint of a smile over his shoulder, “I’m all right. Just…just had to help a friend from study, his-…they-”

Her light brows knit, and the corners of her mouth pull down. He falls silent.

“…Please don’t tell Ma it was this late.” He whispers.

She crosses her arms over her chest, “Don’t do it again.” She orders.

“I won’t.” He promises, “Please, Modesty.”

Her lips remain pursed as she pads across the hall to wrap her arms tight around his middle. He shies from it for a hint of a moment, the soreness in his body an invisible stain, then gently wraps his arms around her shoulders.

“You scared me.” She huffs.

“I’m sorry.”

“She’s gonna’ wake up soon.”

He swallows, slipping back from her, “Thank you.”

“You know she’ll still-”

“I know.”

Something in her eyes flickers.

“It’s fine.” He tells her softly, “I’ll be fine.”

Slowly, she nods, and her feet shuffle against the carpet as she backs up towards her room. He watches her go with another thin smile. When her door is shut, his spine begins to loosen once more.

 

***

 

By the time Mary Lou drags him out of bed, he is at least ready to tell her that he fell asleep after study at a friend’s, that his phone had died early in the evening. With barely enough time to get prepared before Mass, she lets a few sharp slaps suffice as a harbinger of what’s to come. He keeps his gaze on the floor.

They don’t speak as they ready themselves. Chastity and Modesty are like the afterimages of light, flickering through the apartment, disappearing each time Mary Lou draws anywhere near him. Her jaw is tight, lips drawn, and Credence wonders in earnest if she might keep them all home from Mass to make an example of him. When she finally herds them all into the car, silent and airless, she drives twenty miles over the speed limit for the length of the parkway. Modesty’s knuckles whiten around the handles of her bible cover.

He doesn’t risk a glance at Graves as they file into their pew. The older man is a blur of black, blue, and silver just at the edge of his line of vision. He feels his cheeks warm at the faint impression of him. The jolt of soreness that prickles up his spine when he sits makes him duck his face down towards the missal. Chastity shoots him a curious glance. He ignores it in favor of leaning back. The coarseness of his shirt sets the welts beneath it burning, and he draws in a measured breath. His, his. Mary Lou’s fingers in the meat of his thigh, pinching and twisting hard enough to bruise, pull him back to their pew. He swallows a pained gasp.

“S-Sorry, Ma.” He whispers. He can sense Graves bristle across the aisle.

“You will ready your mind for His word.” Her voice is hard, barely audible, a sharp point sliding in between his ribs, “Is that clear?”

“Yes, Ma.” His fingers tighten.

She releases her grip, and blood rushes back into the spots her fingers had pressed white. The pain of it forces his jaw tight. ‘Enough’ flickers across the back of his mind – the word Graves had given him, at the beginning of it, to stop it if he wanted. He lifts his eyes to Mary Lou’s face. Her eyes haven’t left the organist, her other hand resting primly in her lap. There’s a whisper of a vein in her throat, coiled and tight, and Credence imagines it, for a fleeting moment, as a snake. There is never enough.

The missal thuds down onto the kneeler. Chastity starts at the soft sound of it, and her wide eyes dart to him before she can stop herself. He’s on his feet, nostrils flaring, mouth pressed into a strained line and the hunch in his shoulders wire-drawn. Mary Lou looks to him, slow, a tectonic fault grinding together.

“Sit down.” She hisses through her teeth.

His pulse is racing in his ears, and the stiff breath he pulls in through his nose is too cold, too thin. Hands fisted at his sides, eyes dark and wide. He envisions himself unravelling, expanding to fill the high ceiling of the church, a maelstrom. When he turns, stalks down the center aisle, he hears her exhale sharply. The sound of her heels, thick and blunt, follows quick behind.

He makes it out of the sanctuary, through the narthex and down the stairs into the empty hallway that leads to the fellowship hall before he feels her fingernails in his forearm. She drags him to face her, and the back of her hand across his face blurs his vision.

“What is the matter with you?” She grates, “You ungrateful, disobedient-”

Her anger coils in on itself, and she growls through gritted teeth as she strikes him again. He ducks out of the way of another blow, circles back around her to buy himself time.

“Stop it, stop it, _stop it!_ ” His voice is cracking as he barks, and his fists are so tight that his nails bore crescents into his palms.

Her eyes widen, pupils tight, all indignant rage, “You will _not_ tell me what to do.” She snarls and raises her hand once more.

He braces his feet against the ground and throws his hands up in front of his face. Over his shoulder, an arm surges between them, a broad hand seizing her wrist. Her fingers splay as it tightens over the cuff of her teal jacket. Credence’s breath leaves him.

“Absolutely not.”

The order is a low growl that makes the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Mary Lou struggles to pry her arm back from Graves’s grip. Credence finds himself mutely curious if the color in her cheeks is effort or embarrassment.

“What is this?” She seethes as he releases her, stepping back to massage at her wrist with the opposite hand. Her gaze flickers between Credence’s face and Graves.

Credence takes a long breath. He can sense the warmth of Graves’s body a step or two behind him. His eyes fix on Mary Lou’s. The slow scrape of the heel of his oxford is the grind of a match coming alight, once, twice, and then his back thuds against Graves’s chest. She makes a strangled sound low in her throat.

“ _No._ ”

“I want-” His voice is slow, articulating every sound, “-to go home now.”

Graves’s hand is at his hip immediately.

“Credence.” She simmers, “Don’t you dare.” The command grows ragged as Graves ushers him back through the hall, “Don’t you- don’t you _dare!_ ” She’s calling after him on the stairs, “Credence! _Credence!_ ”

The air outside is warm, close, and Graves is holding him around the waist.

 

***

 

He has to knock that evening – the lock on the doorknob is mangled, the deadbolt fastened. Chastity pulls the door back only enough to press her body into the crack of it.

“You can’t come here.” She barely whispers.

“Chastity-”

Her face is wan and colorless, “You can’t.” She repeats.

“I just-”

“You need to leave.” She swallows and looks back over her shoulder, “Please.”

His lips purse. Slowly, he nods.

He makes it to the car before he dissolves. Graves pulls him close by the shoulders, lets him shove his face into his chest and bark out short, desperate sobs. His fingers are in his hair, and he’s murmuring something beside his ear. Credence has to swallow back thick gasps before he can make out what it is.

 “Stay.” Graves is whispering, “Stay.”

 He whimpers, nods as he fists his fingers in the older man’s lapel.

 

***

 

He’s never been asleep in Graves’s bed before. The comforter, almost too soft, offsets the firmness of the mattress. Credence furrows his brows as he crawls into waking. Graves’s arms are looped around him, holding him against his broad chest. He lets out a soft breath. Long fingers find their way to the back of Graves’s shoulders and curl there. The man stirs.

“Sir.” Credence exhales.

Dark eyes slide open. A crooked smile plays across Graves’s mouth.

“My boy.”


End file.
